Riding the storm out

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My toddler son rode out a couple of hurricanes in the relative safety of The News Herald's building.

By Mike Cazalas

Published: Wednesday, September 5, 2012 at 11:10 AM.

But for most of the day we’ve prepared for the possibility that a nasty storm might hit us this week, and we’ve got to figure out how to produce not only a couple of dailies, but eight weeklies and various other publications.

Deadlines are shifting, reporters and editors are speeding things up, the people who design and produce those pages are working their normal off days and press crews stand ready. We’ve had a lot of “just in case” conversations since our last major hit in 1995 with Hurricane Opal’s devastation, and we’ve written a lot of stories about storms that never made it here, or made it here so lightly that some even expressed disappointment.

You wonder how many more “just in cases” we have in us.

Isaac isn’t looking particularly nasty at this writing Friday, but it’s looking pretty determined to head our way. It might mean nothing; the storms rarely seem to go where forecasters say they will. Or it could mean a hurricane at the worst possible time for our tourism industry looking to end the summer with a banner Labor Day weekend.

I haven’t lived here long enough to call myself a native, but after nearly 30 years I’ve earned the right to call it home. An Atlanta transplant, I arrived in 1983 to sunny beaches and a part-time job at The News Herald.

In 1985 I got my first taste of covering hurricanes. We had two fickle hurricanes that year — women both: Elena and Kate.

Without claiming a perfect memory, I do remember being dispatched as the “Beach” reporter during one of those storms. What I remember the most is my stay at the Panama City Beach Police Department. I guess they call that being “embedded” now, but back then they basically just put up with my presence. I marveled at the array of food set up in the jail cells: cold cuts, desserts, cookies and just about anything fresh, donated by grocery stores.

As the storm’s winds increased, so did Chief Lee Sullivan’s intensity, until he finally ordered the doors locked. “No one’s going anywhere,” he declared, though he might’ve added an expletive for emphasis. “If they didn’t evacuate by now, you’re not getting killed trying to save me.”

I was pretty sure we were all going to die.

Later hurricanes left other odd memories:

During one storm I was assured The News Herald was a “hurricane-proof” building by our former production director Bruce Garner. When I asked about the groaning in the roof, he said it was designed to do that, it was “giving way” to the force of the wind. I believed that for many, many years, well past the time we lost Bruce to cancer.

Safe in our groaning cocoon, we were then made happy by a boss who arrived with 50-gallontrash barrels filled with ice and cold beer. It was a one-time affair, because the next day the damage inside the newsroom was much greater than what befell Bay County, and there was certainly more aluminum scattered about.

When Opal hit in 1995, I remember making it to my house and watching the bay water inch toward it but stop short of the 15-year-old air conditioner. I considered dumping salt water in it to ensure its demise, but I had a photographer with me and they are notoriously untrustworthy when it comes to insurance fraud, so I refrained.

After Opal, a family we gave shelter to the night before returned with a Coleman stove and a batch of bacon and eggs, cooking for all of us.

When Hurricane Ivan formed in 2004, I had a 2-year-old son. He was too young to be afraid, so he stayed with me at work. One of my favorite pictures now hangs on my office wall from then: Tommy Needham captured a shot of me at my desk, the phone cradled on my right shoulder and my son cradled asleep on my left.

But for most of the day we’ve prepared for the possibility that a nasty storm might hit us this week, and we’ve got to figure out how to produce not only a couple of dailies, but eight weeklies and various other publications.

Deadlines are shifting, reporters and editors are speeding things up, the people who design and produce those pages are working their normal off days and press crews stand ready.
We’ve had a lot of “just in case” conversations since our last major hit in 1995 with Hurricane Opal’s devastation, and we’ve written a lot of stories about storms that never made it here, or made it here so lightly that some even expressed disappointment.

You wonder how many more “just in cases” we have in us.

Isaac isn’t looking particularly nasty at this writing Friday, but it’s looking pretty determined to head our way. It might mean nothing; the storms rarely seem to go where forecasters say they will. Or it could mean a hurricane at the worst possible time for our tourism industry looking to end the summer with a banner Labor Day weekend.

I haven’t lived here long enough to call myself a native, but after nearly 30 years I’ve earned the right to call it home. An Atlanta transplant, I arrived in 1983 to sunny beaches and a part-time job at The News Herald.

In 1985 I got my first taste of covering hurricanes. We had two fickle hurricanes that year — women both: Elena and Kate.

Without claiming a perfect memory, I do remember being dispatched as the “Beach” reporter during one of those storms. What I remember the most is my stay at the Panama City Beach Police Department. I guess they call that being “embedded” now, but back then they basically just put up with my presence. I marveled at the array of food set up in the jail cells: cold cuts, desserts, cookies and just about anything fresh, donated by grocery stores.

As the storm’s winds increased, so did Chief Lee Sullivan’s intensity, until he finally ordered the doors locked. “No one’s going anywhere,” he declared, though he might’ve added an expletive for emphasis. “If they didn’t evacuate by now, you’re not getting killed trying to save me.”

I was pretty sure we were all going to die.

Later hurricanes left other odd memories:

During one storm I was assured The News Herald was a “hurricane-proof” building by our former production director Bruce Garner. When I asked about the groaning in the roof, he said it was designed to do that, it was “giving way” to the force of the wind. I believed that for many, many years, well past the time we lost Bruce to cancer.

Safe in our groaning cocoon, we were then made happy by a boss who arrived with 50-gallontrash barrels filled with ice and cold beer. It was a one-time affair, because the next day the damage inside the newsroom was much greater than what befell Bay County, and there was certainly more aluminum scattered about.

When Opal hit in 1995, I remember making it to my house and watching the bay water inch toward it but stop short of the 15-year-old air conditioner. I considered dumping salt water in it to ensure its demise, but I had a photographer with me and they are notoriously untrustworthy when it comes to insurance fraud, so I refrained.

After Opal, a family we gave shelter to the night before returned with a Coleman stove and a batch of bacon and eggs, cooking for all of us.

When Hurricane Ivan formed in 2004, I had a 2-year-old son. He was too young to be afraid, so he stayed with me at work. One of my favorite pictures now hangs on my office wall from then: Tommy Needham captured a shot of me at my desk, the phone cradled on my right shoulder and my son cradled asleep on my left.